He's grumbled most of the day and though she's told him time and again that he should be honored that Lady Mary asked him. She could have asked anyone he's answered, but she reminds him that that is the point and she asked him. Still, he cannot fathom how he has gone from the pressed grandeur of his livery to the soft velveteen of this other suit.
She finds him still fretting about, fussing with the fastenings on his trousers. She notices that he's having more trouble as of late with the small things, the things that require grip or small, intricate movements. She sees him flexing his hand, stretching his fingers, rubbing them furiously as if willing them to work as they always have.
Dr. Clarkson has told them not to worry, that it is just a sign of aging. But she worries because her husband has spoken to Lord Grantham and come to terms with what must be done. When the church bells toll in the new year, they will make their way from the Abbey to their cottage for the last time as butler and housekeeper. She worries how he will really accept retirement.
"Let me help," she says as she gently stills his hands, buttons up his flies. "You know if they ask you to do this next year, I'll put a zip in these. I'll be easier."
"So, that's it? I am reduced to a song and dance man again?" he rumbles in a huff.
"I don't think that your present role requires you to dance about and sing, Charles." She bustles about the and fetches the chair near her dressing table. With a quick flick of her wrist and a sharply pointed finger, she silently instructs him to sit.
"Now, why can't you just enjoy the pleasure that you will be bringing the children," she says as she retrieves a pot of lip stain from her table and opens it.
"What are you doing with that?" he asks in sheer horror as she smudges her finger into the pot.
"You must have rosy cheeks, Mr. Carson."
"Hmmphf."
With her husband's cheeks suitably brightened, Elsie steps away to assess her handiwork. Her brow furrows and something doesn't seem quite right. Her husband notices and for a moment, they simply looking questioningly at one another.
"I know!" Elsie says with a wide smile. She reaches for a small pot on her dresser and pops open the lid.
"You're not?!"
"Sit still." It is as much a command as a request and her husband complies. He knows that it does him no good to do otherwise, because eventually he will bend to her will.
"I cannot believe that you are putting talc on my eyebrows," he grumbles though he sits patiently.
"Your beard and eyebrows must match, Charles. You know that. Now let's get your beard on."
Fitting the cloth loops over her husband's ears, Elsie leans deep into him to that she can secure the ties of the flowing white bead. With her bosom pressed against her husband, she hears him groan appreciatively and she smiles. She is thankful that despite his curmudgeonly posturing, she can always count on him to make her feel loved and appreciated.
After having tied the beard securely, she steps back, and looks down at him. Her husband, this great big bulk of a man has seemed lost for the last few weeks and has wondered what he is to do with himself since he turned in his notice up at the Abbey. And here he sits, in his vest and a pair of red velveteen trousers, with painted cheeks and a borrowed beard. A livery of a new kind.
She smoothes her hands over his ears and down his beard and she wants to cry.
He is such a good man; a kind man in his way. She hopes that one day, when they are older, the children will remember and appreciate his efforts to make them happy.
"Well now," she steadies herself. It'll do no good to get sentimental now and she doesn't want to upset him. "Let's get your coat and hat on."
The house is quiet. Mr. Molesley has left the servant's entrance open for them and the Carson's softly pad toward Elsie's sitting room. Once there, they fill a cloth sack with the gifts that Lady Mary, Lady Edith, and Mr. Branson left for her to wrap and Charles tosses the bag over his shoulder. He winces with pain. His hand hurts and his shoulder is stiff, but he'll not tell Elsie. He doesn't want her to worry.
Together, they climb the grand staircase and make their way to the nursery. There they find Master George, Miss Sybbie, and Miss Marigold asleep in their beds, stockings hanging from the bedposts.
Charles makes his way toward Marigold's bed first. The poor little girl with a dead father and a mother who seems on the precipice of final happiness seems restless. Such as it should be he thinks; the anticipation of Father Christmas' visit is indeed exciting. Into her stocking Charles carefully places a stick of peppermint, a box of colors, and a doll.
Next, he moves to Master George. The little boy who never knew his father and who is having to make his way with his mother's new husband. Charles and Elsie hope that the boy and his mother find lasting happiness. As Charles looks at the boy, the fair-haired image of his father, he knows that Downton Abbey will one day be his and he hopes that the future Lord Grantham loves the estate as much as he, himself does. Per Lady Mary's instructions, Charles deliberately makes a good bit of extra noise when into Master George's stocking he puts a collection of toy cars and a toy locomotive.
When he turns around, he sees out of the corner of his eye, the shining smile of Miss Sybbie. Eyes of full of wonder, Miss Sybbie stares at Charles for a long second, sizing him up. Charles says not a word but places a china tea pot and paper dolls into her stocking. Just as he turns to leave, he feels a tug on his coat.
"Father Christmas, may I have a hug," the small, sweet voice says.
"Of course," Charles whispers.
One long hug is followed by two others as George and Marigold awaken and take their turns.
"You've done a good thing," his wife tells him as she pulls the blanket close around them.
"They did seem very happy." He cannot hide the smile that emerges as thinks back on the whole adventure.
"It may be the last Christmas that they are all at the Abbey together." Elsie cuddles in to her husband, smoothes her hand across his chest, feels him breathe.
"It is the Christmas for a lot of 'lasts'," he sighs.
"Yes, it is," she replies. "But it is a Christmas of 'firsts' as well.:
Charles draws his wife close, plants a kiss to her hair. "It is isn't it," he agrees as he reaches for her left hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses her ring.
The silence of the cottage envelopes them, only the soft winter's breeze blows outside forcing a branch against the window. She feels his breathing begin to slow and knows that he is heading for sleep. The days are getting longer for him, for them both, and she hopes that retirement is kind to them.
"Elsie?" his voice breaks the silence
"Hmmm…."
"Despite all the changes, this is my happiest Christmas you know."
She feels tears spring to her eyes and then one escapes and trails down her cheek. She knows that he means what he's said, what it has cost him to admit that he has to leave the Abbey, and to retire.
"It is my happiest Christmas too, Charles. The very happiest."